There are things that alter the path of life, shrinks refer to them as 'significant emotional events', and for city folk I'm sure they are. Those of us with more wholesome backgrounds might think of them as epiphanies, since there is more good than bad in our lives.



So it was for me that day back in '66, in the deeply shaded citrus jungles of Indian River County, Fl. just a few miles south of the notorious Sebastian Inlet. That is a place rife with adventure in its own right, but such tales are for another forum and another time. I had gathered my 3 friends in the early morning darkness and we drove south from our homes in the beach communities of Satellite Beach and Indian Harbor Beach, to find our fate that day, and perhaps fill the larder with swamp hare and maybe a cotton tail or two. The groves were awash with them, and many other tasty tidbits as well. At the time, long before nature lost the battle between right and General Contractor and his mechanized army, the technology of raising world famous citrus was simple. Clear the land, plant the trees, then a few years later reap your just rewards. The lack of maintenance provided cover and sustanence for natures creatures, and they grew fat and plentiful.



Due to the early hour there was little conversation as we drove south on A1A in dad's 1960 Fairlane 500. 292 CID, 2 speed auto, small fins a useless fashion borne of America's fascination with all things aviation related. It was a time of The Beach Boys, long boards, and astronauts. Heroes, idols, and THE RIGHT STUFF. While they toiled and sometimes died in their quest, we faced more basic dangers, often recognized, sometimes not. We crossed the bridge over the inlet just as the first light of dawn broke over the Atlantic, a stirring vista indeed. The nearness of our purpose stirred my friends, and the rustle of shifting bodies, the growing converstation signaled their excitement.



Only 2-3 miles further we came to our turn off on Jungle Trail, a dirt track that led to Orchid Island after several miles of groves, and a scenic drive along the Indian River. We were not destined to travel that far though, our turnoff looming in the headlights after less than a mile.



We disembarked from the Fairlane, the smell of decaying vegetation mixed with salt air from the crashing waves a rather exotic mix. The trunk opened, we assembled our gear and weapons. They were, for the most part neophytes. In this context I had suggested shotguns, as much for self defense as practicality. It was close cover country, the action fast and with little warning, shots rarely beyond 20 yards anyway. The morning light made my dispersal instructions easy enough, and we parted company to seek our own rewards. They could drive the lanes between the trees in the groves as a group, or individually, the choice theirs.



As they left I put on my vest, a tattered veteran of countless quail and dove hunts, a worn faded khaki that was the norm before orange was invented as a primary color. My fingers a bit chilled by the temperature that day, nonetheless slipped the clip into my Remington 513S, loaded with Winchester HP loads, Long Rifle of course. As it was the time of heroes, it was also the end of the era of iron sights for most. But my eyes were better than an eagle, and I found little use for glass. I walked down the road 1/4 mile then eased into the grove, windless and beginning to steam as the morning sun heated evening dew on the leaves and fruit. The shadows were long, and a dark mood crept over me, a foreboding feeling that this would not be an ordinary day. A distant boom of a 12 Gauge, hoots and laughter from my friends. "Ah" I thought. "I have delivered idiots unto natures realm." I drew a deep breath and plunged deeper into the waking jungle.



I was raised a bird hunter, that being the family passion. The rifle I fondled was the result of an expedient trade between gramps and myself, as he coveted the Benjamin air rifle I owned as a tool to properly groom his young daughter, my aunt, who was many years younger than myself. Don't ask. In today's perspective I say only "Good for him!", but it was odd to try explaining that in my youth.

Anyway, I owned only shotguns, and coveted a rifle more than sweet Connie Pierce, and so it came to be that the rifle, and its legacy were handed down. Perhaps a story there for the future, but for now I'll try to stay the course. It was used. Really used. Little original finish on metal or wood, but no abuse either, and the bore was pristine. I had endeavored to give it new life and had refinished both, the finish it wears still, and even with 40 years of hindsight it was a yeoman's work of love. Oiled wood, and blue metal still glistens. It may never leave the family, and certainly never leave the country of its birth. Retrieving it from Mexico, well it is a tale....



I had no experience in stalking then, but it came naturally to me. A few slow steps, the long pause and detailed examination of the shadows and nooks where the wiley hare might be sitting. I worked the full width of the grove under the dark shadows of live oaks that bordered, and saw nothing. Another loud boom, and more maniacal laughter from my 'associates'. At the corner of the grove I paused and peered. It was a somewhat large open area, a coincidence of nature, a shaded glen. I stood there for perhaps 5 minutes, then as I took a silent step in dew softened grass I heard a faint rustle to my right front, deep in the shadows. Another 5 minutes passed, another step, then two, and I heard it again. Thus began the agony and tension. I was being stalked! This I knew with certainty, but the provocateur's identification remained a mystery! My heart began to pound, yet I stood fast. I had read the shorts in Outdoor life of men attacked by bears and bobcats, I knew I could not run! Another step, another rustle, and frozen but for my eyes I peered into the dark gloom of downfalls and shadows, seeking that one telltale movement that would save me, yet it was not yet to be.



Thus it continued, and after more than an hour of ... and Dan, I was perhaps 40 yards north of the glen. As I had moved, so too had the aspect of my nemesis. I'd take a step, hear the rustle to my right rear, freeze and look. I felt the distance lenghten between us even as insecurity grew in my heart. I turned and began walking backwards, one small careful step, then another, my eyes never leaving the gloom that threatened me, the dampness on my hands growing, a trickle of cold sweat soaking into my U of F sweatshirt(urban cammo). Another boom, then another. Hoots and laughter from the idiots I'd brought to the sanctity of this battle ground. I felt the nexus coming, yet was powerless to halt the onrushing finale. Another step, then two...



Just as the sound of my savant acquaintances died, my eye caught motion. The faintest wisp of black moving on black. I froze as granite, rifle ready, heart pounding, yet mind clear as fine crystal in that moment. Time stopped, the world grew quiet and hunters faced each other and their chosen destiny. Then amidst the black shadows, a tiny star of white shifted, two green eyes blinked, and the form of the jungle killer became clear! Only 20 yards away, slowly crouching for the charge, the smouldering green eyes focused on my throat as the Remington slowly came to my shoulder in a fluid unfelt motion, as if it lived in my hands, guided me in this moment of peril. I put the blade between its eyes, and could not have been steadier if I'd rested on a Wimbeldon bench. I do not recall the caress of the trigger, but the sharp crack came to my ears. In the light of the moment, the haze of muzzle blast found a shaft of sunlight and my antagonist was obscured. The bolt glided as if machined in Europe, the whack and clatter faint, my focus on the expected charge. I crouched slowy, to clear the field of view as another shotgun blast came from the northwest.



It lay on the leaves of the forest floor, still crouched as if to charge, yet its chin resting on pugs, the sharp focus of its emerald eyes clouded. A careful step forward, then another, and soon the spot of blood on black became visable. I stood and began to tremble, even as I advanced. The shakes got me then, and I could only pause to collect myself, the huge black form at my feet twitching its last, its fate sealed.



Felinious Junleonious. 27 pounds field weight. It had taken the shot much as one of O'Conner's African lions had from his .375 H&H so many years ago, the story in Outdoor Life IIRC. A single round void, just left of center in the nose. It had wrought havoc in the brain, angled slightly to smash 4 vertabrae, then punched on to destroy lungs and heart. It expanded to about .30 caliber, retained 36 grains of weight with its 8" of penetration.



It's hide glistened like obsideon in the morning sun as I dropped it by the Fairlane. A few minutes later the village idiots returned, sans game, laughing at the carnage of 12 bore vs. tweety birds. One said, "Dan, we didn't hear you shoot.", and I only looked at the ground and said, "Probably because your ears were ringing."



We went home then, and on the way I became a minor legend to the riff raff, the story told twice, only because of their incessant whining. Of course the story grew in their telling, and soon the girls at the college looked at me differently. Some swooned in my presence, some curled their lips and turned away. None of that mattered then or now. My reputation precedes me, and I waste no time with curling lips, so perhaps it is for the better. I found my calling, and today I wear the scars of battle as a badge of honor. Life is good and I walk tall.



Dan



Pres., TYHC



www.InThe.Beginning

Wonderful, Danno! I dub it, "Death in the Orchard Grass".

Great job Dan.
And yet another nomination for the coveted,
'Deader Than Cat Scat' Award.
Pulitzers are meaningless.

Superb, Dan, Superb! That is a Ted Trueblood or higher level of reminiscence. As you say, one of those life shaping events, however dimly evident: lead bullets and singleshots.

Great story again Dan. I was wondering why the spanish stood up on all fours a while back and meowed pitifully.

Interesting perspective Mr. Ludd...I hadn't made that intuitive leap, but I certainly see your point! I guess that idiot Zarqawi owes 'em...

Dan

Pres., TYHC

www.ShiftingThe.Burden